This post has been sitting in my drafts for about a month now... This time of the year is hard; my Dad's birthday would have been the 9th, the anniversary of my Mom passing is the 23rd, last year my Dad passed away on April 9th, and then a about a month later we had to put Daisy to sleep, finally, my Mom's birthday was May 9th, always right around mother's day.

So, I haven't been able to finish this post, until now.

My wife got Ella when she was just a kitten, her friend's mom used to breed ragdolls. That was 18 years ago. My wife and I hadn't even met yet, so when we got together I knew up front that it was a package deal; “the dog and the cat have to like you, otherwise this isn't going to work.”

Thankfully, they did like me, and Ella wasn't like any other cat that I had ever met before. Which is why it was so hard having to say goodbye to her.

Quite frankly, Ella was almost annoyingly affectionate at times. She just could not get enough attention, and it didn't really matter who it was. It just happened to be me a lot of the time. Ella was aggressively affectionate, even.

I still maintain that I'm not much of a cat person. My wife has joked about having more cats, but I always put my foot down. Vowing to never have another cat.

SURE, no two pets are every the same, even if you're fond of a particular breed, they each have their own personalities. But I definitely made an exception for Ella. I wasn't the only one either, all of our friends who weren't cat people felt the same way. Ella really WASN'T like any other cat they had ever met.

Before my Mom's Alzheimer's got real bad, I used to go and pick up my parents on Sundays and bring them over for dinner. Usually while I was cooking, my parents would hang out in the living room and have a beer or two, my Mom really enjoyed just sitting on the couch and petting Ella, and I know Ella looked forward to it too. Any excuse to to be loved.

She was never an outdoor cat, but became one when we moved into our house. Daisy learned how to use the doggy door and Ella just decided that was also for her, but she never went beyond the fence of our yard, she never climbed out and explored... Except for one time. A late night wind storm blew open our RV gate. I woke up early that next Saturday morning, and I found it odd that as I was getting my coffee neither of the pets were in the house to greet me good morning. Daisy knew she wasn't supposed to leave, so she was just standing there looking out at the open space.

“Daisy, where's Ella?”

Looking at me, and then back out to the exposed neighborhood, Daisy didn't have to say anything, the sad expression on her face was really all I needed. I somewhat frantically woke my wife to let her know that we had to go search for the cat. For at least an hour my wife was in denial.

In tired exacerbation my wife exclaimed: “She has to be here somewhere, she's probably just hiding!”

Not knowing when exactly the gate had blown open, we drove to the shelter, we knocked on neighbors' doors, we stopped any morning joggers, just about anything you can imagine.

But just as we had all buy given up hope of finding her, my wife made another attempt to scout the neighborhood, and there she was. One house down and across the street in the neighbor's yard

She also used to listen, too. I remember one of those Sundays my Mom got so excited when I called Ella inside from the back yard. I used to have conversations with her all the time.

We think she might have had a combination of different health issues. But really didn't start to show any signs that anything was wrong until the very end. We tried to treat her for hyperthyroidism, but she stopped eating and lost a lot of weight really quickly. Seemed like within just a couple of weeks her health went downhill. So we didn't really have much of a choice, and even if we had, there aren't very many options for 18 year old cats.

I'll say the same thing about Ella that I did with Daisy; I'm really going to miss her, I've never known any other cats with such a loving personality. And there definitely haven't been any other cats who have been such a big part of my life.

Think of this as the “Director's Cut” for the comic that I've been working on the past few months. If you've noticed, I haven't been doing regular blog updates, it's because I've been working on this comic that I call “The Ghost of Jupiter.” You can read it in its entirety on my Deviant Art account, and in the original resolution (very high quality). Deviant Art isn't the best site for hosting a web comic, but it is a great site for hosting original artwork.

So, what is the “Ghost of Jupiter” comic?

It's part Film Noir and part Atomic Age Sci-Fi. My personal interpretation of David D. Friedman's vision of what a true anarcho-capitalist society would look like. Set in the not so distance future, the entire solar system is colonized, but this story in particular takes place on Enceledus. It's a world where various rights enforcement agencies are crossing paths, so what are the conflicts that they are dealing with? And even though space travel is commonplace, there still appears to be a need for a good gumshoe... Or, two, or three, or several.

Of course, every gumshoe needs to be an alcoholic. I call him “The Ghost of Jupiter”, it's an incarnation of another character that I've played around with in some of my short stories. However, when those short stories take place the character wasn't known as “Ghost,” he was only known as Kai Zarrison. Eventually I'll share why that is, but only when it becomes important to the story.

No home... Just the foul, the funk, and the forgotten. Cast aside on city streets or deep within alleys. Between the concrete cracks, we are the roaches, the tarnished, and the human trash.

You might be able to tell... I just started drawing pages, one at a time. The first drawing I did was back in August, with the most recent pages being completed just the other week. So it has taken me about 4 months (give or take, because of the holidays), to finish ~13 pages, or ~24 panels, complete with text (narration and dialog).

Whatever happens to strike my fancy is what comes next. That being said, the last 4 months have taught me that planning out a few pages in advance isn't a bad thing, so I'm always thinking about that while I draw. The general story is already in my head, and I know where I want it to go, but page to page I draw them a bit like people play jazz. I'm just tryin to riff on my emotions in the moment but still tell a coherent story.

Hopefully you can see some improvement as the pages have gone on... I've always sketched and doodled, ever since I was a little kid, but these days I'm rusty. I actively gave up art for a long period of my life. So, the discipline is coming back slowly, it's like working a muscle that hasn't been used in 20 years.

Comics are as much about the entire page as they are the individual panels. So the layout is important. It has to be visually interesting, but it still needs to tell a story.

I can remember my art classes from Junior and Senior High as being very enjoyable and memorable moments in my life. I was lucky and had some really amazing art teachers when I was younger.

Somewhere around when I drew the pages above (008-009), I had made the decision that I wanted to do some type of a romance or love story as well as capitalize on a noir aesthetic or feel. But instead of the traditional murder mystery (which quite a few noir films have), I'm going to focus more on the comic being a commentary, with romance and action going on in the background.

Yes... Ghost is the main character, and he will never show his face entirely. Wearing a mask and having a secret identity is such a major aspect of both super heroes and villains. With anti-heroes being vulnerable individuals who maybe don't make the right choice, but they do it for the right reasons.

Ghost is the hero, but Lisa will be his anti-hero foil as well as love interest. I think female anti-heroes tend to tread in mostly comedic waters, so there are missed opportunities for story telling if you do a female anti-hero who isn't always making fun of themselves and the world.

So this is where I'm at. I feel like my art is evolving, and I'm expanding my mediums even. I still want to do traditional art, because I feel that's when my drawing looks its best, but I also want to start incorporating alcohol markers. Sharpie are the most notable brand, but there are markers made just for artists; Cali Art and Ohuhu are the two brands that come up most often. I opted for Cali Art, even though I have more experience using Sharpies, and have had some success using them in my drawings.

What I have not done before is mix fountain pen ink with alcohol markers... My workflow thus far has been sketch, and then ink. Well, I did that this last time, and then tried to lay down some markers and realized that alcohol is what you use to get fountain pen ink off of your hands or on a surface, etc. So I had to stop trying to color the page that I was working on and just leave it as is. Going forward I'll be penciling, coloring, and then layering the inks on top of all that. I think it'll work just fine. However, I may have to let the marker sit over night to dry before putting the inks down.

Ghost of Jupiter has it's own website: jupitercomic.com.

Feel free to also follow me on Instagram and Youtube.

Today was The Game Awards. Probably the best show that they've done thus far. Props to Geoff, I appreciate him sharing with the public that his dad passed away earlier this year. Mine did as well, so I know what that's like. For him to put on such a good show after having just gone through that, I find that impressive.

The Awards themselves are what they are... Expedition 33 cleaned house. I lost track of how many awards it won. Congrats to those guys, they deserve it. I have my own misgivings about the game, but those are my personal issues and I acknowledge that. My opinions are in the minority, and so the general consensus is dictating that it's a great game.

All things being equal though, we know The Game Awards are really the The Game *Adverts*. There's nothing wrong with that. I get excited for new games, and as mentioned above, Geoff puts on a good show. There's a live orchestra, usually at least one pejorative word, and one muppet. Sometimes we get lucky and there are multiples of each.

Without further adieu, here are the new games coming out that caught my attention:

Star Wars Galactic Racer

Part of why the show was so good has to do with the games that are in the pipeline, and the reveals and... Honestly, a Star Wars Pod Racer game was very much unexpected but also welcome. I'm just praying for sim aspects where you get to customize your pod racer throughout the course of the game. I don't know anything about the game other than the trailer that we saw, however, I would very much enjoy a game that functions similar to Forza or Gran Turismo, but I'll settle for NFS car customization.

Exodus

This game is highly anticipated by my friends and I. We're all Mass Effect fans to some degree or another, and the hope is that Wizards of the Coast can deliver. At the end of the day, a lot of good sci-fi is just someone's take on the heroes journey.

So, this year we got to see a really good story trailer for Exodus. I am slightly concerned that it's going to be too much like Starfield, in that main character is just another “prophesied/chosen” one who becomes a space knight or wizard... Looks like it definitely has heavier science fantasy vibes rather than space opera vibes, yet, it was written by Drew Karpyshyn (who also wrote Mass Effect).

The way that Mass Effect handles the hero's journey is exceedingly good on an overall arc (1, 2, and 3). But especially within just the first game. After seeing this trailer I have some hope that it's more (or less) a refinement of the space opera hero's journey, with some new flair.

Divinity

It did leak yesterday that Larian's new game was going to be “Divinity” and that it was related to the statue/art installation that was put up in the desert in Joshua Tree, CA. However, after an amazing debut cinematic, we still don't know exactly what the game is. They've had other games with “Divinity” in the title and each of those games have different gameplay styles; some are classic CRPGs, but as is the case with Divinity II, at least one of their games is an action title.

I'm assuming that they are going to continue the work that they did with Baldur's Gate 3 just because that game was such a massive success for them, but that's not a given. They could pivot and do something entirely different this time.

Regardless of the fact that we don't know exactly what the game is going to be... Blizzard used to be the King of CGI cinematic trailers and cut scenes, but Larian just took the crown by force. People are being burned alive, orcs and elves are engaged in coitus, it's quite a sight to behold.

Warlock

It has been known that Larian weren't going to work on any new D&D titles in the near future. However, Wizards made a big push to expand their digital offerings after Baldur's Gate 3's release, and there was a public announcement some months back about how they were courting other development studios. We're finally seeing the fruits of those partnerships, and what D&D IP looks in the hands of others.

With Warlock, they certainly got my attention. TOOL's “46&2” is a unique song to pick. The only thing I could think was, “who was able to get TOOL to license their music?!?” I'm sure WotC shelled out some serious cash to get the rights for the trailer.

Again, we don't know much about this game, it's entirely a cinematic trailer. Eagle-eyed Redditors will probably be picking it apart to figure out whether the game is set in the Ravenloft, Forgotten Realms, Greyhawk, or Dragonlance campaign settings... And I'm sure there are hints. I thought I was that kind of nerd, but nothing in particular really stood out to me. Based on the opening shot I would bet on a Ravenloft game, but as far as I know, nothing is official. According to IGN, the gameplay reveal is scheduled for June 2026, and with that I'm sure we'll get more information.

Highguard

Who left from Respawn to go start Wildlight Entertainment?? Because Highguard looks awesome! Yes, I will absolutely play this game for FREE.

I've always liked HeXen and Heretic, and I revisited those games when the remasters dropped earlier this year on GamePass. For me, those id Software classics have been the benchmark for Fantasy FPS games. Still, in my opinion, they were always a bit dark. I don't mind serious themes, but I do like more whimsical visuals with my fantasy games. Highguard delivers that, and in a way, this is almost science fantasy as well. My only hope is that there will be more than just a battle royale mode.

Star Wars: Fate of the Old Republic

Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about how Geoff opened up the show with this bombshell. The best WORLD PREMIERE of the night was Fate of the Old Republic.

All of the rumors suggested that there was going to be “a Star Wars game with Old Republic in the title,” so everyone assumed that it was the KoTOR Remake returning. Depositions were done in conjunction with a legal proceeding that just settled last month. An Aspyr executive testified that the KoTOR Remake was still in development. Along with it, there is also supposed to be a remake of the second game that also includes the cut content... Why? Well, the suit was brought under false advertising claims, because there has already been a “remaster,” or port, of of KoTOR II to the Nintendo Switch. It was advertised quite plainly that the Switch version would get the cut content.

None of that really matters though, because Casey Hudsen is back! And he's directing a NEW entry in the Old Republic games. I'm stoked, as much as I want to play the old games with some modern features, I don't mind a modern interpretation.

Seems to be a bit of a resurrection of old BioWare alumni. A lot of hype this year, and I was there for it. I needed a hype-filled year of hopes and dreams.

Honorable mentions

• Both Tomb Raider Games I'm slightly more interested in Legacy of Atlantis over Catalyst. Their respective release dates are a year apart (as of the writing of this article), and I never play games on launch anyway. Also, there's the possibility that one or both could be delayed... That being said, Legacy showed off a lot of environmental puzzles and actual tomb raiding with Lara's primary enemies being all the wildlife and traps that want to kill her. So that I'm super down for. In fact, I don't think I saw another human character in the entire trailer. Seriously though, just give me Lara by herself, that's a fantastic game. Catalyst appears to be a game for fans of the newest trilogy, Lara comes straight out of the gate and is ready to start murdering bad guys with those Desert Eagles! I'm glad that they're trying to please both audiences, and stagger the releases.

• Control: Resonant This game looks fantastic. I have the first Control in my games on Steam, I just need to actually sit down and play more than a couple of hours of it. This new game coming out could be a good reason to go back and play the first. Not sure how much of the first game you need to have experienced to appreciate this second one.

• Mega Man: Dual Override Sure, I'm down to see more of this game. It looks like the classic gameplay. This is a series that I've always wanted to get into, but have just never been good at. The only ones that I ever did play were the Legends and X games.

• Gang of Dragon Toshihiro Nagoshi departed Ryu Ga Gotoku Studio, the developer who makes the “Like a Dragon/Yakuza” game series and is apparently doing his own take on that style of game. I'm eager to see more. I think there is room in the market for more than one company to make Yakuza-style semi open world action adventure titles.

• No Law Who knows if I'll ever have time for a an open world FPS RPG... It does look kind of cool, but I need to see more of it if I'm going to consider sinking multiple tens or hundreds of hours into it.

Getting back to this story though. This is one of the longer short stories that I've written, coming in around ~6k words. It's still considerably much smaller than a novella, but I've written it with the possibly expanding the story and the chapters more with additional prose in mind. So it is broken into ten “chapters” and an Epilogue.

The Pitch?

It's sort of like if Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind had a baby with Total Recall. It's not quite as Philip K. Dick as I would like it to be, but I didn't think f®iction would want to publish hard pyschadelic sci-fi... Maybe I was wrong.

The story was rejected, but honestly, I would rather just post it as-is for people to read while I work on other stories. I would love to know your comments. What do you like? What do you hate? Any feedback is welcome.

I

Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can hear the glass shattering and I feel the tiny shards splintering across my face. I don't think it was Mick's fault, necessarily. I could see him start to grab the controls to swerve our taxi out of the way, but the system just didn't respond in time to his manual input. The vehicle just had a mind of its own. With the ice chunks falling through the sky, it just made it all that more difficult...

Lawyers for the insurance companies settled the matter without needing to appear in court. In the days after the accident though, I was so disconnected from everything and everyone around me that I didn't really pay attention to the documents they had me sign.

They just parroted the manufacturer's marketing claims, “these incidents are exceedingly rare” and “the safety systems engaged and deployed within optimal operating parameters.”

I know for a fact that my memory just hasn't been the same. I've been to several doctors, and they all say that there was no physical damage to my brain, that my trouble remembering things must be psychosomatic. Of course, I don't remember so well, how would I know whether or not they were lying to me?

“Emily?!?” Dr. Thompson gets my attention with a worried exclamation of my name. 

“Huh?” I must've trailed off. 

Sometimes I can't tell if I'm just thinking the words, or if I'm actually saying them out loud—it has gotten me into trouble before. Full conversations that only take place in my head and not with the other person participating. Even worse; when I say something I don't actually mean, an idle thought that escapes my lips. Thinking through words, or having an internal conversation with myself before engaging with someone else helps me to decide if it's the right thing to say in the moment, but only when I have control over it.

The good Doc continues, “you were just mentioning something about how you still get visceral flashbacks, as if you can still feel the sensation of the impact from the accident?” She lowers her glasses as she looks at her notes and then back up at me.

Our eyes meet, so I respond, “yeah, that's right. I guess they make the glass special so it's supposed to shatter into tiny pieces like that, but it's like tiny bits of hot ice when it hits your skin, crumbling to sand at the end, the tiny shards melt into the cuts that it makes... Cold at first, quickly replaced with a burning sensation.“ 

My tone is meek and meandering, I'm clearly not invested in the conversation, and Dr. Thompson knows it. She and I have gone over this a hundred times. She says that working through the trauma will help to rebuild the connections in my brain, and for the neurons to fire properly, helping form new memories. Also, improve my overall cognitive abilities through nothing less than sheer mental exercise. But I think she's full of shit, and I don't want to deal with reliving the pain any more. But for a fleeting moment, I am able to recall more of the details of that night.

It's the surface of Enceladus that stands out the most in my memory. The moon is only about seven hundred thousand square kilometers, but the constant snowfall from its major geological feature (The Tiger Stripes) at the South Pole tends to blanket the surface quickly, and so the emergency medics didn't find us right away. For that matter they couldn't tell whether it was the cold or the impact that killed Micky.

II

Sitting at my terminal at work with my hand hovering over the resonant display emitter, lifting up and swooshing to the right, cycling through a bunch of old pictures, I'm wondering what happened to all the time. For that matter, what the hell did I even do last night after leaving Thompson's office, and how did I get to work this morning?

These are questions that Jennifer can't answer. Not that I'd want her to. None the less, she saunters on up behind me without my noticing her.

“Hey Emily! Wha cha doooin?!”

Her infectiously sweet tone is a high pitched enthusiasm that sickens my stomach. I want to turn around to slap her, but I don't. Instead, I take a moment to breathe deeply and prepare for the emotional exhaustion of interacting with her.

Just before the silence gets awkward I slowly swivel my chair in her direction and look her in the face. It's an exercise to contort my facial muscles in such a way that my smile seems genuine and not forced.

“Well... Today would have been our anniversary. So, just looking through some old photos is all.”

“OH! That's right. I am so sorry! I should have remembered. But you know what might cheer you up? One of these cupcakes!”

My mind told me that the smell I caught in the breeze was just her perfume, and my eyes completely missed the platter of confections resting in her arms. Jennifer was the type to wear a scent designed for twelve year old girls to smell like frosting, so I didn't even question the thought. Vanilla gourmand. She also knew Mick pretty well too, which made her pandering all the more infuriating. We all had worked together for years, but he hated her as much as I did. For a brief moment I'm able to cling to a lost memory of his voice.

Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with Jen? She looks like a clown with all that makeup on, and she's always so god-damned happy. You know that's not normal! I'm only nice to her because I don't want her to come into the office one day and shoot the place up, or run around stabbing everyone with the birthday cake knife from the break room.

My fake smile slowly morphs into a genuine giggle as I imagine Jen gripping the handle of the dullest blade I've ever seen, tears streaming down her face in a thick rainbow of mis-matched blushes. Unable to actually injure anyone.

Shaking myself from the absurd cartoonish fantasy, “you're right! Maybe I could use a cupcake,” I exclaim.

By agreeing to take one, I know that she'll end this ridiculous exchange and move on to another co-worker that she can emotionally manipulate. Preferably one with the energy to deal with all her bullshit and engage long enough for me to slip away unnoticed.

As Jennifer trots away I scan the room for a roaming rubbish bin, preferably one that's out of sight and in the opposite direction of the way that she's headed. Bingo! A Robbie Roaming Robot Rubbish Bin, four o'clock!

“I swear Jen's mission in life is to make sure I can't fit into my pants!” It's a soft and compassionate voice. Even so, Rhonda startles me a bit. 

Clearly I didn't notice her as a I darted for the three foot tall squirrely mechanical trash collector. Staring down into the anthropomorphized receptacle I see that I'm not the only one who doesn't have a sweet tooth at 2pm on the Friday preceding a long bank-holiday weekend. 

Rhonda awkwardly giggles before I have time to respond, and quickly tries to change the subject, “so, uh! Emily, how are you doing?”

Authentic tone. Genuine concern. I decide to keep it light, rather than bitching about Jen or cathartically reminiscing about Mick.

“Saving my calories for some drinks later! How about you?“ 

In that moment, I'm hoping maybe Rhonda doesn't have any plans either, I don't particularly want to spend the evening alone. At least with a few drinks between us we can each easily ignore any waterworks that might be plumbed from my grieving heart. I'd be happy to talk to someone who wasn't court appointed or callously clinical in their approach to conversation.

Rhonda's widening eyes and toothy smile are the only response I need to confirm that we indeed are on for drinks after work.

III

Maybe it was the jalapeno poppers with the mango habanero cream cheese from the bar last night, but my dreams were extremely intense. 

I felt like I fell back into this dimension from another one, and I woke up extremely disoriented.

The dream was about living on a property in the picturesque icy wilderness near the surface, and the property came with a guest house. The guest house was where we were staying, and the guest house came with a dog. 

The house was situated along an internal riverbank with a lot of fresh foliage climbing the glass domes which let all the natural light in from the Bond albedo (of the moon's reflective white surface) when it was morning. Mick was there as well. We both felt bad about forgetting to feed the dog for some reason. A lovable multi-colored brindle pit bull. Preparing food for him was a bit like a video game, and we had to arrange food bites into different sized squares, and the tray was white and the lines or dividers between the food segments were blue.

There were other people who would peruse the property as well, all of them just passing through. Some on a stagecoach, others by horseback. They were shadows in the background of my life; each of them seemed to come and go without any real permanence. The property also evolved over time, and there were periods in the dream which progressed much faster than others. The guest house morphed from a shack into something much more substantial and robust. I don't have a good understanding of the layout to describe it, but I seemed like I knew how to make my way around inside the building. As if the building were somehow evolving around our living patterns.

Before I knew it, I remember standing in the interior of a building modeled after a rustic log cabin, like something that might have existed from the mid-to-late nineteenth century, post-Civil War America pre-Empire, otherwise known as the Wild West.

Most of the dream itself took place at dusk or dawn... in that perpetual twilight that early summer evenings have. I had a sense that it was getting darker the longer I stayed in the dream, but it never hit the point of turning completely into nightfall.

Suddenly I was transported from the mahogany log guest house with the dog, out to the back porch of my new single person apartment here in Cassini Falls, in the Prefecture of Lave.

As I was standing there, a liturgical, angel-type Entity swooped down and greeted me. At least that's the way I interpreted its curiosity.

It was a sentient sphere of color-changing plasma—or simply colored light. A large ball surrounded by an oblate sphere, ring, or saucer with a hole in the middle. There were also three other smaller orbs that accompanied the main sphere. All five of the component parts (sphere, orbs and ring) were loosely connected with an electrical energy of some kind that also shifted in color. The kind of electrical tendrils in one of those novelty plasma globes, the kind you touch and the electricity gets concentrated to the point where your fingers meet the glass.

While it didn't have any discernible facial features the way one might expect, the Entity did emote, and it made sounds the way a cat might chirp, or a parrot would in mimicking Morse Code. Unfortunately I couldn't make out what it was trying to say to me. Still, I understood the colors. It would flash red while speaking, blue when it was observing or listening, and finally yellow when it was thinking or contemplating its response. Variations in between the primary colors suggested nuance to its speech. Flashing yellow in between blips and shading to blue periodically to make sure I was paying attention.

“Mick! You gotta come here and see this thing!” My screaming was in vain though.

Even though I couldn't understand the sounds that it was making, I did get the distinct impression that it was trying to communicate to me. Specifically I received the impression that I wasn't supposed to be there, with it.. which felt like an odd thing for it to to tell me on my own back porch. It was in that instant though, a glimmer of doubt in the conversation, and my spirit was ripped back through the apartment, slamming into my body. My vision of the back porch soon became fleeting as I began to sense some semblance of a more physical awareness of my body.

IV

Gasping a long deep breath, I jolt myself from bed. My sense of feeling and mobility are much slower to return to me than they normally are. In the muffled distance I can hear the faint sound of my doorbell just as my sense of hearing returns from a light hum.

Ding, ding, ding.

“What the fuck was that...” I say to myself. Even though it felt like I had been thinking about saying that—and a million other variations—the act of finally being able to verbalize it somehow returns me to regular timespace and reassures me that I'm no longer dreaming.

Ding, ding, ding.

“Probably an Architect's Testimonial or a Huygen missionary,” I reasoned to myself as I ease the urgency of the solicitor's beckoning from my conscience. Just enough to gather my wits and firmly plant myself back in this reality.

Ding, ding, ding.

Persistent and annoying... I really don't feel like telling some teenager that they're in a cult, but I look to my left and the clock on the wall reads 7:15 a.m. It's Saturday. If they don't go away and give me some peace, I'm going to emphatically shatter their Huygen faith with some of my favorite scripture:

We have been carrying the burdens of our own darkness, and bearing the weight of our collective pain. Yet we've come to realize that it's only by surrendering to the light that we can begin to heal. ~ Luthier's Book Chapter 14 Verse 26.

I'll never actually convince anyone that they're really worshiping demonic beings, but it's always fun to watch them fumble their words and fall into the rote pattern of circular logic that is used to talk themselves through an attempt at converting someone.

Stumbling out of bed I fail to find strong footing, my legs are eerily heavy and it takes me a while to get the blood pumping through my body enough to even make it to the door.

Before I can make it, there's a rustling on the outer gate, and I deduce that they've probably stuffed a pamphlet for me to find upon their departure. So early on such a beautiful spring morning, plenty more souls to save!

Sure enough, when I open the door there's a thick folded glossy envelope with... Well that's odd.

I quietly mouth the text on the front, “The Island of Perfect Memories.” Certainly no cult I've ever heard of. At least it's not another copy of Issac Elijah's Sacred Ablutions.

Inside the elongated envelope I spot a letter addressed to me, so I take the letter out to examine it and throw the pamphlet on top of the stack of Elijah's books I have next to the trash can by the front door:

Dear Emily, 

Please allow us to extend this most gracious offer for a month-long retreat to the Island of Perfect Memories! We here with the Society of Sensible Sentiment believe that memories are the greatest treasure of human consciousness. Our patented and proprietary technology, as well as associated techniques and exercises, will surely help you to better develop your skills as a Hypermnesiac! Yes! Someone who possess the ability of perfect recollection.

We understand you may have had difficulty in the past with missing time, or foggy recall! Rest assured, during this retreat you will develop everything you need to live out the rest of your days with Perfect Memories!

Sincerely,

Lady Adair Pembroke

I'm not sure how the hell they got my information, or how they know that I've had trouble remembering things, but it's a compelling offer. Far more intrigued than some teenage Huygen trying to sell me spiritual snake oil, I decided then and there to make plans for this trip.

V

There was never any need for me to travel to other areas of the moon, or even to any of the other planets in Sol, except for the one trip that Mick and I tried to take.

The Enceladus Prime settlement isn't quite as big as the Europan colony, but we share a lot of the same technology with Euorpa, due to the fact that each moon has a vast underground ocean. Still, knowing that I have three hundred year-old proven technology shuttling me sixty kilometers beneath the surface isn't as comforting as I would like it to be. I've lived in the same Prefecture my entire life.

When I told Dr. Thompson that I was going, she was quite surprised. She was also absolutely elated to hear that I had chosen to attend the Island of Perfect Memories.

“As you know, I couldn't have recommended you, all personal files are confidential, and I was also hesitant to recommend seeking out an invitation from the Society of Sensible Sentiment, and Lady Pembroke, without having known anyone else who has visited their facilities. So I'm very eager to hear about your results when you return. Perhaps this is something I can recommend to some of my other clients.“ 

Her earnest and sincere tone definitely made me feel at ease. I still had the journey ahead of me but at least I wasn't concerned about the destination.

VI

The constant snowfall from the Tiger Stripes makes for a less than reliable trip on the surface, there was no way that I was going to make that mistake again. Besides, most commercial transit between Outposts occurs underground in the Grand Ocean because it's actually cheaper to operate transport vehicles there. Unlike snow from the Stripes, the Grand Ocean offered an  inky dark cocoon of depth.

Thankfully my cabin has a porthole for which to admire the beautiful light show. Native marine life going crazy, and living its best life.

One of the first things that folks who settled here did was to capture the power of Enceladus' cryo-volcanism. It means that what we see today isn't the best E-ring of Saturn that could have existed, or does exist in an alternate reality, but it means that we get to live here. It also means that the Grand Ocean is far more tame than it used to be, and the creatures that inhabit this ecosystem have adapted to the relative and intermittent peace in remarkable ways.

All the various marine life has a phenomenal curiosity about humans as much as we have about it, in our tube, rocketing along the frozen ceiling of the ocean. A brilliant mosaic of every hue and chroma of light that you could ever imagine, dancing in the darkness. 

Growing up I heard that some of the bioluminescence we witness is a bit like the echo-location of bats from Earth. We think the superstructures—sucking heat and minerals from the vents which lead down to the core—can contract and maybe even retreat below the iron core's silicate outer structure. Almost as if the moon itself is alive. No one has ever documented the full extent of the superstructures, but it's believed that every point of light communicates with the other in some form or fashion, whether that's individuals of a whole, or echoes of the collective.

The exterior illumination of the SS Aeolus' generous two hundred meter long hull offers some insight to the creatures that dwell here, but it's usually a fleeting sight. Anything close or caught in our current breaks free and keeps its distance as much as possible, retreating to the murky comfort of its habitat.

My mind instead settles on what I imagine is quite far off in the distance. A blinking red light, pulsing in an almost sensual manner. I can't help but wonder if I'm finally getting to experience photonic location. Can it see us? Does it know that we're here? What is “it,” exactly?

Concentrating harder reveals nothing more than a pinpoint of red. Around it are other features of the superstructure though; mountainous himalayan spines with greens and yellows trading off of one another on either side of the pulsing red. I'm sure that some of the light has to be blue or purple, but those colors aren't quite as noticeable as the others, and they don't reveal as much of the fleshy oscillation of the seafloor's features.

From what I can tell it took us approximately fifteen days from the port in Cassini Falls to get to this mythical Island. It was only after we got there—having stopped in Hydrostadt—that I realized this wasn't all that special of an island.

Mick and I had talked about going here for vacation once. I don't know why I thought it was going to be some mystical retreat I hadn't heard of before. Unlike Titan, I don't really know much about that moon. Only the fact that's where all those crazy zealous Huygens come from.

Nevertheless, I'm eager to see what this Society of Sensible Sentiment looks like.

VII

The Society's building was much smaller than I imagined it would be. Then again, there were only ten or so of us who were staying at the Island of Perfect Memories. Such a small cast of characters was ideally intimate though. It gave me the opportunity to mingle with others who all have a similar goal to mine, to become a hypermnesiac, to have absolute perfect memory and recall. This was to be our residence for a long enough time, it seemed prudent to try and get to know the others a bit.

The Island was little more than the only land mass at the center of a small pond. The building at the center of the small piece of grass was rectangular in shape with a square jutting from the middle of the front of the building. Stairs led up from the square entrance into the halls of the rectangle.

From the main entrance Lady Pembroke emerged to greet us all, introduce herself, and instruct the concierge staff to whisk us away. As we were escorted to our rooms, I noticed a stately clean-shaven ginger man to my right.

But the only thing I could think to start the conversation was, “there's no way you have trouble with memories... right?”

“Speravi In Misericordia... It's Latin for 'I put my trust in mercy,' and that is to say, I don't even know how I got here!“ 

Definitely the most interesting individual of the bunch, he continued on, without missing a beat and without care to my reaction one way or the other, “so, that's the motto of the courts on Calisto and Io in the Jovian Oligarchy.”

“Oh really, and what exactly would that have to do with anything?” I played along with his humble boast. 

“The name is Marquis Kato! This is the first time I've ever travelled via an abyssal aquatic medium. The void of timespace is far more familiar to me. I also don't usually make it out this far, generally I keep to Calisto and Fairwind, on Mars. I about worked myself to death. So this is kind of like a vacation for me, I'm just here to recuperate.”

Chiming in from the back was an androgynously bearded waif.

“Did somebody say Fairwind?”

Marquis and I oblige. He nods, my eyes invite this third voice to indulge us.

Holding out their hand in a dainty manner, “Astrid Lyrax! Pleasure to meet you both—though I didn't catch your name, sweetie.”

“I was just goin' to introduce myself. Emily.”

“And what is it that you do, or what brings you here?” Not expecting me to reciprocate those questions, Astrid finished their rhetorical prompt, “not everyone from Fairwind works at the casinos! I'm a neurosurgeon. The Lady Pembroke has asked me here to conduct an independent analysis of her facilities.”

Before I could add much to the conversation we had lost the other seven people and had arrived at our rooms.

Astrid and Marquis’ rooms were cattywampus from where my room was situated. The others down the hall seemed to form their own groups. Perhaps it was the destiny of the distance between our rooms. The others were cordial enough, we just didn't clique.

VIII

My first night there I had difficult falling asleep, as is normally the case with new beds and new rooms. Take a bit to get used to your surroundings, or to find a way to get comfortable. None the less, I did fall asleep for a little bit. Much to my surprise my friend the Entity came to visit me again. Enby seemed as good a name as any.

This time the Enby Entity was practically screaming at me. I couldn't understand because I only just walking the hallway out side of my room. I imagined it was my brain's way of getting used to my new surroundings.

As I walked forward toward Enby, they shot toward my face, its companion orbs encircling its center sphere in an exponentially increasing pace. As the speed increased so too did the rotation of its colors emanating from its body. Quite quickly the colors blended, reaching a point of complete and brilliant white light, blinding me and forcing my vision to go black.

Waking up this time wasn't quite as jarring a the time before. Instead it was a quite pleasant transition back to the waking world.

Seemed to be the perfect timing as well because the curtains were just transitioning to a less opaque material to allow the light to come in. I could smell a fresh pot of coffee brewing away in the corning of my room as well. An ambient calming voice came in over the room's sound system and I was guided into a meditative session.

“Good morning Emily, to start your day, we want you to just relax. Follow the sound of my voice and allow yourself to drift and grow larger.”

I hadn't been inclined to do this sort of thing on my own, but what the hell, as long as we're here, may as well go along with the program.

“As you you see yourself growing larger, remember that you are still anchored to your body here and now, in this moment. First visualize the room, then the top of the building. From there you can see the entire Outpost, and then all of the various Settlements here on Enceladus.”

Incredibly, it was working. Not only was I able to visualize myself, but memories began to come flooding back. The home of my parents as it was when I was only twelve years old. The place where Mick proposed. My first job working for the Ministry of News. And I could remember what it was that we had done yesterday. Not to mention Marquis and Astrid. Was this all that was needed, a semi-strong cup of coffee and an erotically soothing voice to put my off into another dimension?

“As you start to watch the Settlements get smaller you can see Saturn and Titan. Now the entire solar system; Earth, Luna, Mars and Space Station Omega. Before long the entire Galaxy is before your feet, and then the entire Universe.”

Before long I begin to see a vision of myself, but it wasn't me... It was another me swimming along in the vast galactic infiniteness. Riding imperceptible waves of psychic energy.

“Come along?” I see me ask myself.

My feet still firmly planted on the moon. Other me freely in control of their movements, but lost to their connection.

“No!” We echo back to one another. Except her mouth doesn't move. It's just in my mind.

My act of defiance causes me to start shrinking back down to the surface of Enceladus. Then finally back down into my room. I come to as a sharp “BING” noise alerts me that there is someone at my door.

“Madam, please make a lunch selection so that the kitchen can prepare something and have it sent to your room.”

Confused, having not spent much time examining my room the night before, “and where exactly would that be?” I question the disembodied voice.

“The interface on your nightstand. Just activate it and select an interface.”

AH, yes of course, just like every other hotel that I've ever been to. “Right! Thank you, forgot about that.”

“No worries, madam.”

It was hard to imagine that it was lunch time already. Which means that I had been in a meditative state for quite a long time, and not much had happened. The reverse of the dream state.

IX

Surprisingly—to me at least—I assume we were supposed to be in our rooms all day. There was another meditation session scheduled for the afternoon, but the computer let me bypass it, and since there were no other items on the calendar or the agenda I just decided to keep to myself.

I did spend a brief moment walking around the hallways before dinner, but they were surprisingly vacant. I suppose most everyone else decided to take part in the afternoon meditation session rather than skipping it like I did. I wasn't sure exactly how I felt about the the whole program thus far. I was hoping for more pomp and circumstance, or legitimate theatrics to help guide the experience. The letter made this sound like a much more grandiose affair. Isolating myself was downright depressing.

When I woke up the next day I decided to skip the first meditation session and do some more exploring.

Again, no one in the halls, or anyone anywhere on the premises of the property. Probably all off meditating, enjoying their boring isolation.

While I did have a decent experience the first time seeing myself, face-to-face, it was a little unsettling as well. I suspect that we're under surveillance of some kind, just to make sure that no one looses their mind. By the same token there weren't custodians in the hallways, or anywhere around the facility managing the guests or trying to enforce any rules or regulations on me. So, wander I did.

Although the building itself was simply a large rectangle with a square jutting from the center (ornate decorations and filigree lining the moulding and columns aside), some of the hallways were quite labyrinthine and maze-like. Different doors were labeled in different ways, but I deduced that all of the numbered rooms were living quarters of some kind. While there were only ten or so of us who arrived at the same time to the island—Marquis and Astrid being the only two that I formally met and spoke with—and only four or so support staff that escorted us from the entrance... The highest number that I saw was thirty. Whether or not all those living quarters were filled, I couldn't tell you.

Other rooms were labeled in practical ways; “Closet” or “Equipment”. All the rooms were pretty decked out with features, so I imagine there had to be somewhere to store the systems handling that sort of accommodation and luxury.

It was the door labeled “Antique” that really caught my attention though. Such an odd name for a door. Why not the plural? Or, for that matter, why would some place like this even have a room for an antique?

What was the antique? What purpose did it serve?

The longer I sat and stared at the label on the door, the more questions I had.

“Well you can't seem to sit still, young lady. Care to take a gander?” The voice was as mature, smooth and Transatlantic as the voice in my head. Turing around my eyes met Lady Adair's. Her scarlet regal French twist updo was all the more distracting when combined with her accent.

Continuing, she said, “would you like to see, then? Clearly you aren't as entertained as our other guests.”

“So that's it then, we're supposed to just be sitting in our rooms by ourselves?” I questioned.

“Quite certainly. You didn't enjoy your... mental journey? Didn't you uncover any memories you had forgotten? See a long lost love? This is the process, my dear, and you're not like ninety percent of our visitors or residents here.” Her frustration was hidden in her hospitality, but I could feel it.

Sighing, I released an honest response. “I just expected more, I guess? Also, I just had a crazy vision toward the end of the first meditation session that sort of put me off to the whole idea.”

“That's what I figured. Come on here darling, let me show you something.” Lady Adair reached past me and opened the door labeled “Antique.”

“Here, take a look for yourself.”

As the door slowly swung open I was shocked to see Enby, caged in a glass dome! There they were, but not aware of our presence, though. Still floating and changing colors, but noticeably absent.

A hood leading to a duct above the glass dome was spilling some sort of smoke or fog-like essence on to the glass dome that was encapsulating and housing Enby. As the fog touched the glass sphere enclosure it would transform into a plasma like substance that was beaming it's way into Enby, almost as if they were somehow absorbing the fog.

X

Something within me stirred, and I just couldn't help but feel that I had some sort of a positive emotional connection to Enby. Despite the fact that they were oblivious to my presence in the moment, we had connected before. So I felt that there was a reason for that.

I looked back toward Lady Pembroke. Her essence started to feel dark. There was reason and purpose to Enby's captivity. I couldn't quite parse all of what was going on, but I knew I could tell the difference between light and dark.

Exploding with a bit an internal rage, I threw my balled fists down onto the glass dome in an attempt to crack the containment!

“No! You stupid girl, what are you doing!”

“You've got it caged! They're a prisoner!”

“NO! It must have gotten to you! Damnit!”

”...What? What are you talking about?”

The glass dome splintered and started to spider. From a few small circular fractures in the center, the fissure soon rending into a few large cracks which coalesced along the bottom of the half-sphere before popping in a violent concussive wave. An overwhelming white light encompassing the entire area.

A loud “THANK YOU” pulsed through my head.

Lady Adair was so impressed with my ability to ignore the calls for meditation, she failed to calculate that maybe I wasn't acting of my own free will.

Enby was more than happy to pass along an entire mental download that explained everything... Or maybe I just sensed the clarity of my own internal vision. There was no reason why I should want to unleash this unknown force into the world.

Time seemed to dilate in the second the white light hit my face.

I saw myself, the same version of myself that swam past me in the infinite. She said to me, “they want us to share.”

The first few memories that I did get back during my time on the island... They weren't my own. They were hers, my others, both of ours. But my lost memories from before I came to the island must have went to another us from a different time.

Lady Adair's voice slurred to a crawl, “you fool, I had it contained! It was serving us.”

The intrigue and the compassion I had for Enby withered in an unpredictable decay. It was both the sense of loss as much as it was betrayal and despair. Enby shot out of the room labeled “Antique”, through the roof, and off into the night sky. The further they got the more it became apparent that I was being manipulated.

Lady Adair Pembroke had trapped Enby for her own purposes, and although Enby was caught in a slumber of sorts, they were able to reach out some of us on the plane of our dreams. And so they called to me, and I made the journey.

Enby had reduced my existence down to a chemical formula of emotions, and used that to manipulate me... And Adair, and the entire staff on the island, all in a clever and calculated way to plot its escape.

Lady Adair Pembroke sat and wept. Unsure of what the ramifications would be when Enby made contact with their own kind again. Would the local authorities on Enceladus care or even understand the nature of the crime? That didn't matter as much as her knowing the truth of her own transgressions.

EPILOGUE

I stayed in touch with Marquis and Astrid. Marquis told me about how the Jovian Oligarchy took an interest in Lady Adair's business venture with the Island of Perfect Memories. Turns out there is a council of wealthy individuals who are interested in protecting humanity in its current incarnation, and they are concerned that she may have invited malicious retaliation from a species we've never had formal first contact with.

Astrid was able to provide a little context for me as to why this might be important. The way it was explained to me is that if the species that Enby is a part of ever does come back to exact revenge on humanity, we don't stand much a chance because they understand quite succinctly how to manipulate our perceptions and emotions, not to mention interact with alternate dimensions. If Lady Adair had gotten away with it, she would have harnessed the ability to manipulate anyone and at any time, in any location.

All the vibe coders seem to be programmed to do the same thing. Deploy React apps. Regardless of what you want to do, it seems to spin up in React as the default. You can tell it to use other languages, but I've not had much success with any other language. I'm also not versed in many languages, other than javascript.

WAY back in the day I did BASIC. Then there was that time that I got into PERL... I've also done some PHP, those were the early days of Wordpress and Drupal. Or course there was also that time that I tried to learn REBOL, but couldn't figure out what the hell I was actually going to build with it. Then of course Dartlang came along, and because I'm 100% immersed in the Google ecosystem, I thought it would be fun to learn that.

Long story, long; the only language that I've found any utility in was javascript. So, hate me all you want. I just didn't go down the same path as you.

I've been trying to vibe code a new version of VideoGameGossip(“VGG”) for a long time now... Ever since I bought the domain (along with a basic WordPress setup) off an Indian bloke living in the UK. I actually don't know if he was Indian, there's just that meme that keeps coming to mind.

The Name alone, “VideoGameGossip.com,” was worth the price I paid. So I'm certainly not mad about it. And I got some use out of the setup that he provided, but it just wasn't the site that I wanted to run.

For what it's worth, I do have a certificate in frontend web design, which is about three years old at this point...? I don't remember exactly, but I think it was the beginning of 2023. It was right before Amazon and Google decided to lay off a bunch of people, so the certificate wasn't very valuable when I got it. I was fighting over entry-level positions with senior-level programmers. In any case, I do know a bit about React, even though I'm not a huge fan of it. I also have some AWS and old school LAMP admin under my belt. Though, I prefer Digital Ocean and Google Cloud over AWS, all-day, every day. But I suppose that's the subject of another blog post.

In any case, I'm actually a fan of this vibe coding trend. I just think that it still takes SOME programming knowledge to be able to enjoy it. Also, if you've spent any time messing around with running LLMs locally, that experience helps with the process of understanding what's happening during a vibe coding session. This is true for all tech though, having a better understanding of the tech that you're working with will make you a better user of that tech.

General Vibe Coding Opinions

So, it's disappointing to look at most of the discourse surrounding the use of AI coding assisstants and tools. Unfortunately I only see two types of opinions when it comes to vibe coding:

• It's the best thing ever; OR
• AI is an abomination from hell.

Personally, I think it's in-between. You do benefit from it as long as you understand the code that it's producing. A lot of people will just copy and paste and complain that it doesn't work properly. Even back in 2022 and 23, this was even going on in my frontend bootcamp class, people were already resigned to the idea that Chat was going to take their job. Also, asking Chat to solve their homework assignments for them was much easier than actually figuring out the problems. Sometimes it worked, other times it didn't. I preferred to actually put in the work and do the coding problems. So my opinion of vibe coding is somewhat more nuanced.

No Two Services Are Quite The Same

The original “vibe coded” version of VGG was built using lovable.dev. That service is good, but there's no easy way to deploy your app to a custom domain (or at least there wasn't not that long ago), and as far as backend infrastructure is concerned, the only option is Supabase.

As I'm sure you can probably tell, currently I'm utilizing Google's “AI Studio”, which will then deploy to the Google Cloud ecosystem/infrastructure natively, and almost seamlessly. Not to mention, a simple web application is relatively cheap, the only real expense is storage. The application is so light that I'm only expecting to pay a dollar at the end of the month. Yes, you read that correctly, $1. If for some reason a bunch of people visit the site, I would probably need several thousand visits for it to spin up enough instances to really cause any problems with the site. Most likely what would happen is that it would stop pulling news articles before it cost me any real money.

If I have to build a custom back-end, I could... Golang would probably be my choice. I'd have to spend more time with it, but for what I want to do, I don't think it would be too complex.

Hopefully I'll be back with my post about our time in Mexico... I think it's a decent story. I just felt the need to talk about the stuff I've actively been spending my time on—of the things that aren't work-related.

Also, it's been a while since I've run or hosted a website, so I'm using this opportunity to get up to speed on the current tech. Let me know what you think! I would be happy to hear your thoughts.

So far, with the latest incarnation of this blog, I've been pretty consistent with posting at least once per month. This is the first time that I've missed that goal since I started Version 4.0. Obviously, I've shared some of what has been going on with my personal life... that being said, I am still writing, even if it isn't going up on the blog. Right now I'm staring at 17 different “ideas” and 17 different “drafts” (or a total of 34 different pieces of writing) in my Personal Knowledge Management system (“PKM”), and those do not include the stories that I've finished.

SO, “why the silence on the blog?” you might ask. Well, I can't publish the stories that I submitted to the competitions that I've entered. Most of the contests have a moratorium as to when you can publish a piece submitted as an entry. It takes a long time to hear back on whether or not you were selected or booted. Of the two competitions I'm in right now, only one of them is “in-process,” meaning someone is actually reading it.

There are other things I've written about; some new recipes, my thoughts and reflections on the much needed vacation that we just took... That stuff should be up sooner rather than later, so you'll get to read about my experience down in Mexico before too long.

In a way this post HERE is as much of a re-calibration for me as it is just a generic blog update. We've been back in the country for a couple of weeks now, but with my wife's birthday and other things going on, it seems like we've kind of been going non-stop and have been busy since before we left. So I haven't really been motivated to write.

Not going to lie, it was a little jarring to leave the country, but it was something that we planned around the end of last year. We even put the money down for the tip back in January. I was actually looking forward to being able to share all of our pictures and everything with my Dad, but that obviously didn't happen. There was a part of me that didn't want to go, regardless, I felt like I had an obligation to take the time off. It wasn't just my wife and I going, it was also her sisters and their significant others. My vacation request had also already been in for a several months leading up to the trip... More on that later though! It should hopefully be an entertaining read on its own.

Anyway...

Both the short stories that I wrote and submitted are in the same shared universe. I would call it speculative fiction, but the stories also take place far enough into the future to still be considered science fiction. While getting published by someone else would be awesome, in the event that doesn't happen, I'm working myself up to be able to compile all my short stories as a collection to simply publish myself, or maybe try shopping it around to an agent.

There are also a couple of other competitions I have my eye on, with deadlines coming in the next couple of weeks and throughout the rest of the year. Worst case scenario, I've got a bunch of short stories that should be coming back to me by the beginning of next year (at the latest) that I can periodically post and could probably put the blog on autopilot for a few months if I stayed with the same posting schedule.

Quite a lot has happened in my personal life. Some of it I've shared, other stuff, not so much. The pain of loss is probably the hardest thing I've ever had to go through. But to lose my Dad and my dog in the same month has been an especially terrible to experience. A bit compounded by the fact that last Friday (May 9th) would have also been my Mother's birthday.

It's a morbid and depressing part of life for anyone who has ever had pets, but putting them to sleep is part of the process after they've lived a full life. I have to say that our experience with the service we used was the lowest stress possible... They came to the house and it was really quite peaceful. We were warned that there might be some erratic breathing or other “distress”, but Daisy went with just a sigh. Which was heart-wrenching and bittersweet, because her sigh was something that I was quite fond of. She was always doing it in protest; “No, you can't get on the couch right now.” sigh. “You already have food! You don't need to bug me for mine.” sigh... I'm so sorry girl, it's time. sigh.

We spent the day just feeding Daisy treats, crying, and giving her lots of pets. Eventually the doorbell rang and the vet was there to administer a couple of shots. Daisy fell asleep and that was it.

A couple of images will probably never leave my mind. Ella, our cat, wandering over and saying goodbye, and helping to carry Daisy out of the house. Not that she was especially heavy, in fact I had grown quite accustomed to lifting her in and out of the bathtub over the last year and half. She had gotten to the point where she couldn't stand up to relieve herself, so we were constantly having to bathe her. But more than a few times in just the past couple of months, sitting in the living room and watching TV, I would look over and could see that Daisy was in pain.

Originally we had Daisy scheduled for a visit at the vet's office. When I came home on Friday after work I had to help my wife clean up the house because Daisy had diarrhea again. Wasn't long before I broke down in tears when I realized there was blood in her stool. The earliest appointment they could give us was for Sunday at 8:30am.

We had all day Saturday to think about everything. My wife and I talked about it in bed that night, and we realized it was just time. For me personally, I couldn't see a situation where the vet would let us bring Daisy home with us. She was in really rough shape on Friday night, barely able to walk, and then with blood and a mucus-y substance in her feces, it didn't look good. As she's gotten older, stuff like this has been happening with increasing frequency. Nearly two decades is a long time for a golden retriever.

Daisy wasn't just any golden though, she was a mutt from the pound, mixed with at least border collie, and probably some other breeds sprinkled in as well. To me, she always looked mostly like a golden, but when her ears would perk up that's when you could see the border collie in her, or when she was busy trying to herd my nieces and nephews. It's actually kind of mind blowing to think that Daisy was 5 years older than my youngest niece. Whenever anyone would ask, I usually would just say she was a golden retriever. Border collies being less prevalent as house or family dogs, and much more of a working breed.

Daisy was Skyler's dog first, I came along after, a few years later even. When my wife got Daisy, she was only 11 months old but had already been returned to the pound twice. She was a wild puppy, always chewing on things and lashing out. On top of that she only had half a tail. Very aggressive toward men, but never toward me. We suspect she probably was the victim of some type of cruelty, probably whatever resulted in her half of a tail. She was the best dog though. Such a sweetheart. Skyler refused to give up on her, and I didn't have to do much, but she was pretty rambunctious on walks. It wasn't long after I moved in that I found I actually quite enjoyed taking her for walks and getting her trained to be more comfortable on a leash.

When I was younger we owned a few dogs, but we never had them long enough to see any of them put to sleep. I think the longest we had a dog was probably Prince—he was a short-haired collie of some kind—but he was only around for three or four years total. So, with Daisy, twelve years was quite the length of time for me to bond and grow old with a dog.

In a way, Daisy's declining health sort of mirrored my Dad's. For probably two years now she had been on carprofen (basically doggy ibuprofen), and we've had to administer it a couple of times a day for her back and legs, just so that she could get around. Plus we had to give her special eye drops. My wife did it in the beginning, at some point I took over, so that was part of my daily routine before and after work, and a reason to get up early on Saturdays and Sundays. Even if I just woke up and then went back to bed; I would give Daisy her pill and eye drops in the morning.

There were probably a couple of Saturday or Sunday mornings that I forgot, but I could always see the pain in her when she would move around. The pills definitely helped. It got bad in the end though. Just this last week, and periodically throughout the last few months, she had some serious senior moments; signs of dementia, falling down, being tired all the time.

I had secretly been hoping that she would just go in her sleep. However, there is the very serious question of quality of life versus quality of care. She was getting to the point where it would have been cruel to keep her alive. That was one thing that Skyler said she didn't want, for Daisy to suffer just so that we could keep her around.

We did have a scare several years ago, when we both thought that would could lose Daisy. It was during COVID, she had a fairly large growth on her chest, and the vet wasn't sure whether or not it was benign or cancerous. Daisy was absolutely mopey for like 2 months. She also hated it when you touched the bump, and she was noticeably very self-conscious about it. Wouldn't you know, as soon as they did surgery and got rid of it, Daisy recovered very quickly and was like a little puppy all over again.

It was maybe another year or several months later that I learned what reverse sneezing was. Yes, dogs do it, and it's very scary if you've never experienced it before. She woke me up around 4:30-5am on a weekend. I promptly woke Skyler up, “you gotta listen to Daisy!”

When a dog reverse sneezes, it sounds like they can't breath, or are having difficulty breathing. We took her to the only vet we could find open, which was nearly on the other side of the city, at least a 30-45 minute drive with no traffic. The veterinary assistant who was working at the time didn't seem concerned at all, my wife and I were still half-asleep and freaked out waiting for the vet.

I don't remember what the vet said, I just remember replying with, “what the fuck is a reverse sneeze?!?”

None the less, she had stopped sounding like she was going to die, and was breathing perfectly fine... Probably because we had driven her far, far away from the source of her allergies; whatever weed was growing in our backyard that caused her to start reverse sneezing in the first place.

I'm really going to miss her, I've never known any other dogs with such personality. And there definitely haven't been any other dogs who have been such a big part of my life.

Back at the beginning of the year I mentioned how I had a good experience with NYC Midnight's microfiction challenge, and so I decided to enter their short story competition as well. I got an honorable mention this time!

I've actually been sitting on this for about two weeks or more. They updated their rules, and they request that entrants refrain from publishing their stories online until at least ten days after the results have been disseminated. Thankfully I was able to tell my Dad about it, even if he didn't get to read the story, but his passing last week has definitely delayed me getting this put up online.

I'm doing this slightly different than I did with Palpable Gravity. The revised short story based on the feedback that I received from the judges will be first, then you can read the feedback I received, after that will be the the original version of the story, finally I'll end this with the lessons that I've learned.

*Fearless* is the story of a mobster in the 1930s who slowly goes insane after a long night trying to pull off a complex grift.

Since this is a relatively long post, you can jump to different sections if you so chose.

• Feedback
• Original Version
• Lessons Learned
• Ending Remarks

Fearless (revised)

I

The way we pulled it off was kind of genius, I have to admit. Gary, a diamond dealer from the south end of town... Well, he had connections. Guys like Lenny.

Lenny was the most extreme individual I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Would not put it past him to maybe do some things that would cause permanent sleep loss. Just fuck you up so bad psychologically that you can't ever sleep normal again. Why kill someone when you can ruin the rest of their existence? So, the gorilla suits were his idea.

We don't know if the clerk who fainted died of a heart attack, or whether he survived the fall when his head cracked against the counter-top.

I told Lenny we didn't need the pistols. A Gorilla and a Chimp are still imposing, especially when they're dressed in suits.

“Geezus Mickey... Did you see that!?!?” Lenny Exclaimed.

“Yeah I fucking saw THAT, Lenny!” My hands uncontrollably extend outward, palms up, in an awkward gesture that suggested the possibly-dead clerk was some sort of prize for our criminal transgressions. Attempted murder might be the final charge, but that's only if Lenny's brother can work another miracle with the judge and get it plead down. Knowing that is always a possibility, Lenny tries to persuade some compliance, so that our stories match.

“You saw that right, I didn't even touch tha mutha fucka, he just collapsed!”

“HAAA HAAHAH AHAA!” I grab my mouth, but my cheeks expand like a chipmunk and spittle sprays out through my fingers. I tell myself it's not funny, and that a jury doesn't like that kind of shit. I can do a year or two in prison, but I don't think I could deal with the shocks if they send me off to the looney bin. Fatty's cousin was never quite the same after Eastern State Hospital.

As I gain composure and drop my hand to reveal an awkward smile, Lenny's slender fingers snap against my cheek in a clap that makes me wonder if I can taste blood. His fingers don't seem to move a lot of air, cold and bony, absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward. My vision goes black for a split second as I processes the sensation. I notice the clerk has fallen back against the wall, and that the ceiling light above him is swaying to and fro.

II

People think that I'm crazy, but I can't help it. It's a nervous laugh. It masks moments of awkwardness, it covers up times when I might be uncomfortable, no one ever quite knows what to make of it. So I'm thankful that they mostly just tolerate it in quiet acceptance.

“Mickey Blue Shoes, you slick motha fucka! What in the actual fuck is yous doin' here?”

“HaHAhahaHA...”

“What's wrong... Not happy to see your favorite cousin?”

A flashback of the clerk on the ground hits my brain, and the swaying of a lamp. I fight the words from my stomach yet still screech out an acceptably normal response from my throat:

“NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty. How are the kids?”

“Fucking incorrigible as always. What about you and your wife?”

“Well, ya know... She's satisfied. I think. HaaaHaHaa.” Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.

“Seriously, you might want to get that checked out. I know a good doctor down on 4th Street if you need a recommendation.”

I couldn't tell him about what happened with Lenny, I still hadn't slept since Friday night. Why even try to explain it? Fat-Nose was the type of bald-headed sonofabitch that is part teddy-bear and part terrifying nightmare. A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams. It's not so noticeable—dressed in a nice suit, but I can see him break into a sweat, he fans himself.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“Maybe you should get rid of that undercoat.”

Fatty began to shed his jacket, and loosen his tie. Sopping wet and unappetizing, the sight of which I know will sour the taste of my breakfast. His uncomfortably protruding hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton, brown and restrained. I wonder if maybe the buttons of his shirt are painted on his stomach, or whether his clothes are just an optical illusion entirely.

My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress and utter disgust.

Just a few transaction ledgers. These books. Those books. One set for the boss, one set for the man. It's not like the amounts are really all that drastic. No worse than taxes, much smaller percentages overall. It's when you get greedy is when you're caught. If you're sensible though, and can play the long game, a smaller percentage over time with lower risk is always preferable.

“Here.” I handed Fat-Nose the brown leather bound notebook. The one with the real numbers in it.

His sausage-like digits wrapped moistly around the spine of the hand written journal, neatly embroidered with a dark brown thread around the edges. Internally I cringed at how much his sweat soaked into the cover. It disgusted me. His manhood sullies my hard work.

If anyone were ever to go back though, they'd get buried in the expenses. It's actually quite amazing how many contractors a simple “Wash-a-teria” has to hire to get things done. If you own the building; there are plumbers, electricians, mechanics, exterminators, and cleaners. All of them are a pain in the ass, but they're all necessary.

Fat-Nose and I are related to a carpenter, Jimmy, he does good work when he's sober... But you know how it is, you can't choose family, and everybody in the family has to eat. So you find what you're good at.

Not more than a day or two after Fatty walked through my door to get the ledger did the Sheriff come knockin'. He brought Mr. Shirley with him too. The Dept. of Business Administration. Sounds really official, but they're the gangsters, not us.

My lip stretches across my top gums, stuck open in an awkward smile from how dry the air is, and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly;

“Heh, heeehee, he HAHA, ha.. ha. Ha.”

III

There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision. The ringing of adrenaline pulses back and forth in the brain... Okay, I may have been drinking as well. I always carry a flask of a nice single malt. My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one.

I had to keep taking sips throughout the day, just to get me through, keep my nerves calm. Not only because that poor clerk keeled over, but also to keep my hand steady. Each of the ledgers needed to look identical to untrained eyes, non-accountants. Plausible deniability all the way around. We had to sneak in even though it was our place. That's what the ape costumes were for. Should the wrong notebook get found by the wrong party; “well surely there's someone out there who wants to frame us. Just look at the other families out there.”

Shirley's knock frightens me, and for a brief second I wonder if I was talking out loud. If maybe her heard me through the door.

Mr. Shirley didn't really buy the story that I told him. And I couldn't help but let the sagging of my eyelids give way to my indulgences from the night before... Or maybe it had been longer than that? Surely, they had seen Fatty leave my place, but I wasn't about to volunteer that information.

“Heh. He. He. HEE. hE.“ 

Shirley pretends like he can't hear me, but he just doesn't want to admit that he might have to engage in any type of conversation that might be uncomfortable for him. Or anything that doesn't involve numbers. I get the sneaking suspicion that maybe he doesn't like people in general. Like maybe he enjoys sitting in the middle of a giant concrete room—reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.

“Mr. Bloushe, I'm going to be very candid with you.” He tries to elicit a response from me with that statement.

No one ever calls me by my last name. They can never pronounce it... Or maybe they just like saying “Blue Shoes” better. Either way, the sound of Bloushe out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight. Having a real name makes me feel like a real boy.

Did he really take the time to learn anything about little ol' me? The patsy accountant. I think not, and my amusement turns to resentment.

IV

“HA. HA!”

Their interrogation of me has blurred into a two hour conversation. I don't know what I might have said, or what they might know, and I'm just too tired, too drunk, and too delusional to care.

Something snaps. Whether it's the lack of sleep or drinking too much, maybe the paranoia born from a coitus of the two. I slide my hand through and underneath my jacket like I'm trying to hug myself from the cool crisp desert air that seems to have slipped in through the contracted wood of my modest one-story home. Nowhere to escape, only eleven-hundred square feet. So my hand slips in until I can feel the leather of my holster.

I judge that Mr. Shirley is approximately six feet in front of me, and the Sheriff hangs to his right, off in the distance by about three yards behind him.

The snap of the button on the stiff strap that holds my Remington Model 51 is no louder than a mouse fart. Neither one of the gentlemen even react to the sound, although it is quite a deafening * SNAP * for my ears. 

I let off five rounds before I realized that my finger had even squeezed the trigger. The ringing in my ears was more than I thought it was going to be. And the taste of the gunpowder was almost salty in a metallic-sandy kind of way. Couldn't help but spit, but no matter how much I spit, I couldn't get it out. I could still feel the tiny grains embedded against the inside of my throat. So I try not to swallow.

9mm Browning is not a weak round. It may not be God's caliber, but it'll do in a pinch, and at close range it's dealdly.

Mr. Shirley dropped like a sack of potatoes on the first shot. I must've got him right square in the forehead or something. My next four rounds were in a box pattern of some sort, I don't know why, but I missed the Sheriff's face twice, but hit his neck and shoulder just fine. Behind him are two awkwardly placed bullet holes in the wall.

V

The blood from Mr. Shirley and Sheriff Mayhill has already started to soak into the white carpet. There was no saving it, and I wasn't about to buy a new carpet. Too fucking expensive. The viscous syrup of life is tantamount to a gelatinous inky substance. It's infuriating when it is isn't yours—I watch it spiraling deep into the fibers. For a moment though, I even appreciate the chaotic style by which it stains, and I briefly wonder if my blood would stain in the same, or a different pattern.

“Heh.”

Is there enough gas in the Packard Eight to get far enough away from town and still burn this place to the ground? Only one way to find out.

Something had to be done, and I scrounged around in the garage for some rubber tubing that wouldn't completely turn to mush as I was sucking the gas out of the ol' Pack's tank and into a bed pan. First the gas, and then we'll see if I even have any matches around.

Most people think gas goes up without much effort, but really if you throw a lit match into a puddle, the match just goes out. It's the fumes that ignite. So not only do you have to spread the gas around good so the whole place burns evenly, you also have to wait a little bit—contemplate if you're really going to do it.

If you wait too long, the fumes catch too quickly and it's difficult to get away. 

Maybe I was just too fucking slow.

I didn't stick around on this Earth long enough to find out what they did with the three bodies. Or to find out who deduced the whats, whys, whens, and hows. Mr. Shirley—I don't feel so bad about. There's no way that tax sucking stiff sonofabitch had a wife or kids. His shirt was too cleanly pressed and his glasses were too pristine for any wife to put up it, or for any kids to recklessly counteract his sterility. 

Sheriff Mayhill went to school with Lenny. We grew up together, but we each choose our own side of the coin... and sometimes it ain't all so clear. 

Sure as shit though, it went down just the way we had planned it.

Feedback Received

What the judges liked about your story.

JUDGE 1

Such a great sense of 1930s mobster noir all the way down to the typeface—such a little detail that makes me immediately feel immersed in the world of the story. I particularly enjoyed our narrator's observations, bordering on absurdist as the sleep deprivation and trauma take over: “hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton,” “absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward,” “reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.” Such sharp, visceral details, all slightly uncomfortable to convey the physical and emotional distress Mr. Bloushe experiences. A favorite moment of mine: “Either way, the sound of Blouse out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight. Having a real name makes me feel like a real boy.” Delicious alliteration, and such a fascinating insight to a character we've already spent a handful of action-packed pages with.  

JUDGE 2

IMMEDIACY: You set an irresistibly confidential tone with your very opening lines: “People think that I'm crazy, but I can't help it. It's a nervous laugh.”

CORPOREAL COMEDY: Your sensate, somatic descriptions of Fat-Nose, Mickey, & Lenny weave a comedic thread throughout this tale, providing the requisite levity of a Crime Caper.

CLASSIC RATIONALIZATION: “The Dept. of Business Administration. Sounds really official, but they're the gangsters, not us.”

GREAT DESCRIPTION: Of the bureaucratic Mr. Shirley from the Dept of Business and Accountability! 

JUDGE 3

The opening gives us an endearing trait belonging to our narrator; not necessarily that it would be endearing on its own, but the way he addresses it makes it so. It makes us want to be in his corner and see him do well – we all have our issues that we didn’t choose, after all. Injecting your protagonist with a relatable quality or circumstances right out of the gate is always good practice, but when dealing with a word cap like this, in a relatively short-form medium, it’s all the more vital. It’s an astute choice to get your reader on your protagonist’s side as soon as possible, so that we have that much more time to root for them. “Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.” This is a fun little aside to the reader. The humor veined throughout the story buoys the potentially dark subject matter, and you manage to strike a good balance throughout. The graphic descriptions of Fat-Nose’s physical characteristics and the way that his hirsute wetness affects his immediate surroundings is delightfully grotesque. Our narrator has a great voice. He’s charming with a roguish, rakish tilt, and given the subgenre you’re working in, it’s the perfect voice to carry a story like this in the first-person. Well done!  

What the judges feel needs work.

JUDGE 1

I love a good non-linear narrative, but I'm curious if this story's momentum might actually be stronger and more captivating if it were told in linear order. There's something to be said about the slow burn of mania, and we lose some of that tension when we jump back to the Friday before; I had to reorient myself a bit, since we'd already established two scenes in the post-heist timeline. The story functions well as it is, but I wonder how it might feel to be immediately struck by the image of the clerk cracking into the counter, then be drug through the series of events, trapped in Mr. Bloushe's disintegrating headspace, with no way out other than the final self destruction. This narrative voice is so strong — I could see it developing even further if it were allowed to run loose all the way through the timeline, without the reader needing to stop to check where we are in time and space.  

JUDGE 2

SWAMPED IN SWEAT: While, as mentioned, you have exceptional skills in conveying the visceral, it can dominate the plot too much, nauseatingly so at times, garnering more focus than the crime caper itself. And sometimes the descriptions are borderline incomprehensible, as with, “ Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.”

UNCLEAR GOAL: Initially it appears that the focus of this swindle is to nab a few transaction ledgers. Then you have, “RIGHT! Grab the cash. Load the suitcase. Run around the corner outside in a comically simian manner.”

PARAGRAPH FORMULATION: In the world of Journalism, a study was done which determined that the beginnings and endings of paragraphs are what impact and stay with the readers most.

And these lines of yours are too choice to leave mulched in the middle of paragraphs: “A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams.” Ewwwww! “My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one.” and “Either way, the sound of Bloushe out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight.”

CONTRADICTORY TIME ELEMENT: You describe your Chapter III as, “The Sunday After @ 7:15pm” followed by the wonderful line of, “There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision.” The problem being: Sunrise doesn't arrive in the PM.

BEYOND THE PALE: If you review NYC MIDNIGHT's Genre Definition of a Crime Caper, you'll see that it entails, “A lighthearted crime story in which the main characters perpetrate one or more crimes—e.g. thefts, swindles, or kidnappings.” But once you have characters possibly crashing to their demise or a gun emerging with homicidal intent, the Crime is no longer a light-hearted Caper.

JUDGE 3

‘”NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty.”’ The placement of the first of these lines feels a bit awkward, as not only did we get a substantial bit of description in between (nothing wrong there), but the conversation seemed to have moved on at this point. Once Fatty addresses the heat, our narrator responds to him by suggesting that he take off his undercoat. Then we get the description of Fatty’s less-than-appealing appearance, and only then does the narrator backtrack and answer the earlier question, which feels like it’s been relegated to rhetorical question territory at that point. If you decided to revisit this story, consider shifting the sequence around here so that this bit of dialogue flows a bit more naturally. “My lip stretches across my top gums … and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly.” Be careful to be consistent with your tenses. We’ve been operating in the past tense up to this point, and here it switches to present tense. This may have been intentional, if the story is catching up to the present at this moment, but if so, it’s a bit confusing, since the story is partitioned into time-related segments (“The Sunday After,” “The Friday Before,” etc.), and there isn’t a time jump preceding this change. “My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress. Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.” This passage feels a bit confusing, and it slows down the pacing of the read a bit. At first, it feels like this reaction is in response to what Fatty said about seeing a doctor to get “that” checked out (either in reference to our narrator’s uncertainty about pleasing his wife or about his laughing tick, it’s not 100% clear, but the laughing seems to be the winner, given its continuing presence throughout the story), but the description goes on to a point where this feels like it’s gotten very serious – a physical breakdown, a stroke, as they say. And then the next paragraph seems to imply that the brain’s concern is that of the dicey situation at hand – the break-in, the theft of the ledger, etc. Given that it’s not quite clear what our narrator is reacting to, and that the story moves right along past it, it might make for a breezier read if this paragraph were trimmed, thus making the story leaner and giving the reading experience a smoother flow.

Fearless (original)

I

The Sunday After @ 6:24 p.m.

People think that I'm crazy, but I can't help it. It's a nervous laugh. It masks moments of awkwardness, it covers up times when I might be uncomfortable, no one ever quite knows what to make of it. So I'm thankful that they mostly just tolerate it.

“Mickey Blue Shoes, you slick motha fucker! What in the actual fuck is yous doin' here?”

“HaHAhahaHA...”

“What's wrong...? Not happy to see your favorite cousin? What have you been smoking the wacky tobbacy or somethin?“  

I couldn't tell him about what happened with Lenny and I, I still hadn't really slept since Friday night. Why even try to explain it? Fat-Nose was the type of bald-headed sonofabitch that is part teddy-bear and part terrifying nightmare. A blob of thick flesh covered in dark bristly hair, busting at all the seams. It's not so noticeable—but when he's in a suit he breaks into a sweat and fans himself.

But we managed to do it. Break-in, steal the ledger, and if anyone happened to see us, all they would have seen are a couple of guys in monkey suits... Literally.

“Is it hot in here, or is it just me?”

“Maybe you should get rid of that undercoat.”

Fatty began to shed his jacket, and then loosen his tie. Completely sopping wet and unappetizing, the sight of which I know will sour the taste of my breakfast tomorrow morning. His uncomfortably protruding hairy male nipples folded under translucent cotton, brown and restrained. I wonder if maybe the buttons of his shirt are painted on his stomach, or whether his clothes are just an optical illusion entirely.

A dark flashback hits the back of my brain: The swaying of a lamp above my head, a moment in my memory snaps me back like a flash to the present. And I fight the words from my stomach yet still screech out an acceptably normal response from my throat:

“NO! Yes... Absolutely.” Changing the subject immediately before I start laughing, “I'm more than happy to see you, Fatty. How are the kids?”

“Fucking incorrigible as always. What about you and your wife?”

“Well, ya know... She's satisfied. I think. HaaaHaHaa.” Doesn't matter, the laugh comes out anyway.

“Seriously, you might want to get that checked out. I know a good doctor down on 4th Street if you need a recommendation.”

My face felt like it had gone through a stroke, contorted and droopy with mental stress. Emotions and anxiety invisibly leaked from ears like an dark goo. I could see this unease in my periphery, like a physical manifestation of my doubt, coalescing from down and around my jaw, then up cheeks, the feeling dimmed my vision.

Thankfully the situation wasn't as serious as my brain tried to make things out to be. Just a few transaction ledgers. These books. Those books. One set for the boss, one set for the man. It's not like the amounts are really all that drastic. No worse than taxes, much smaller percentages overall. It's when you get greedy is when you're caught. If you're sensible though, and can play the long game, a smaller percentage over time with lower risk is always preferrable.

“Here.” I handed Fat-Nose the brown leather bound notebook. The one with the real numbers in it.

His sausage-like digits wrapped moistly around the spine of the hand written journal, neatly embroidered with a dark brown thread around the edges. Internally I cringed at how much his sweat soaked into the cover. It disgusted me. His manhood sullies my hard work.

If anyone were ever to go back though, they'd get buried in the expenses. It's actually quite amazing how many contractors a simple “Wash-a-teria” has to hire to get things done. If you own the building; there are plumbers, electricians, mechanics, exterminators, and cleaners. All of them are a pain in the ass, but they're all necessary.

Fat-Nose and I are related to a carpenter, Jimmy, he does good work when he's sober... But you know how it is, you can't choose family, and everybody in the family has to eat. So you find what you're good at.

Not more than a day or two after Fatty walked through my door to get the ledger did the Sheriff come knockin'. He brought Mr. Shirley with him too. The Dept. of Business Administration. Sounds really official, but they're the gangsters, not us.

My lip stretches across my top gums, stuck open in an awkward smile from how dry the air is, and I can feel myself clenching my stomach ever so slightly;

“Heh, heeehee, he HAHA, ha.. ha. Ha.”

II

The Friday Before @ 11:59 p.m.

The way we pulled it off is kind of genius, I have to admit. Gary, a diamond dealer from the south end of town... Well, he had connections. Guys like Lenny.

Lenny was the most extreme individual I have ever had the pleasure of witnessing. Would not put it past him to maybe do some things that would cause permanent sleep loss. Just fuck you up so badly in the head that you can't ever sleep normal again. Why kill someone when you can ruin their entire existence? The gorilla suits were his idea.

We don't know if the clerk who fainted died of a heart attack, or whether he survived the fall when his head cracked against the counter-top as he fainted.

I told Lenny we didn't need the pistols. A Gorilla and a Chimp are still imposing, especially when they're dressed in suits.

“Geezus Mickey... Did you see that!?!?” Lenny Exclaimed.

“Yeah I fucking saw THAT, Lenny!” My hands uncontrollably extend outward, palms up, in an awkward gesture that suggested the possibly-dead clerk was some sort of prize for our criminal transgressions. Attempted murder might be the final charge, but that's only if Lenny's brother can work another miracle with the judge and get it plead down. Knowing that is always a possibility, Lenny tries to persuade some compliance out of me, so that our stories match.

“You saw that right, I didn't even touch the mutha fucka, he, he just collapsed!”

“HAAA HAAHAH AHAA!” I grab my mouth, but my cheeks expand like a chipmunk and spittle sprays out through the sides of my mouth. I tell myself it's not funny, and that a jury doesn't like that kind of shit. I can do a year or two in prison, but I don't think I could deal with the shocks if the send me off to the nut house. Fatty's cousin was never quite the same after he came back from Eastern State Hospital.

As I gain composure and drop my hand to reveal an awkward smile, Lenny's slender fingers snap against my cheek in a clap that makes me wonder if I can taste blood. His fingers don't seem to move a lot of air, they're cold and bony, absurdly jointed in their curved journey backwards from the force of his hand swooshing forward. My vision goes black for a split second as I processes what just happened. I notice the clerk has slammed back against the wall, and that the ceiling light above is swaying to and fro.

RIGHT! Grab the cash. Load the suitcase. Run around the corner outside in a comically simian manner.

III

The Sunday After @ 7:15pm.

There's something about the sunrise through the eyes of someone with six hours of constant buzz tainting their vision. The ringing of adrenaline pulse back and forth in the brain... Okay, I may have been drinking as well. I always carry a flask of a nice single malt. My father always said that if you're going to be a lush, you may as well be a classy one. It was all I could think about.

I had to keep taking sips throughout the day, just to get me through, keep my nerves calm. Not only because that poor clerk keeled over, but also to keep my hand steady. Each of the ledgers needed to look identical to untrained eyes, non-accountants. Plausible deniability all the way around. We had to sneak in even though it was out place. That's what the ape costumes were for. Should the wrong notebook get found by the wrong party; “well surely there's someone out there who wants to frame us. Just look at the other families out there.”

A knock at my front door frightens me, and for a brief second I wonder if I was talking out loud.

Mr. Shirley, from the Dept. of Business and Accountability, he didn't really buy the story that I told him. And I couldn't help but let the sagging of my eyelids give way to my indulgences from the night before. Him and the Sheriff had knocked on my door no less than ten minutes from when Fatty stormed out... Or maybe it had been longer than that? Surely, they had seen him leave, but I wasn't about to volunteer that information.

“Heh. He. He. HEE. hE.“ 

He pretends like he can't hear me, but Mr. Shirley just doesn't want to admit that he might have to engage in any type of conversation that might be uncomfortable for him. Or anything that doesn't involve numbers. I get the sneaking suspicion that maybe he doesn't like people in general. Like maybe he might just sit in the middle of a giant concrete room, reconstituted and unnaturally smooth stone walls bathed in the cold bright whiteness of fluorescent hell.

“Mr. Bloushe, I'm going to be very candid with you.” He tries to elicit a response from me with that statement.

No one ever calls me by my last name. They can never pronounce it... Or maybe they just like saying “Blue Shoes” better. Either way, the sound of Bloushe out of Shirley's mouth makes the hair on the back of my neck lazily lift in curious delight. Having a real name makes me feel like a real boy.

Did he really take the time to learn anything about little ol' me? The patsy accountant. I think not, and my amusement turns to resentment.

IV

The Sunday After @ 8:59pm.

“HA. HA!”

Their interrogation of me has blurred into a two hour conversation. I don't know what I might have said, or what they might know, and I'm just too tired, too drunk, and too delusional to care.

Something snaps. Whether it's the lack of sleep or drinking too much, maybe the paranoia born from a coitus of the two. I slide my hand through and underneath my jacket like I'm trying to hug myself from the cool crisp desert air that seems to have slipped in through the contracted wood of my modest one-story home. Nowhere to escape, only eleven-hundred square feet. So my hand slips in underneath my jacket, I feel the leather of my holster.

I judge that Mr. Shirley is approximately six feet in front of me, and the Sheriff hangs to his right, off in the distance by about three yards behind him.

The snap of the button on the stiff strap that holds my Remington Model 51 is no louder than a mouse fart. Neither one of the gentlemen even react to the sound, although it is quite a deafening * SNAP * for my ears. 

I let off five rounds before I realized that my finger had even squeezed the trigger. The ringing in my ears was more than I thought it was going to be. And the taste of the gunpowder was almost salty in a metallic-sandy way. Couldn't help but spit, but no matter how much I spit, I couldn't get it out. I could still feel the tiny grains embedded against the inside of my throat. So I try not to swallow.

9mm Browning is not a weak round. It may not be God's caliber, but it'll do in a pinch, and at close range.

Mr. Shirley dropped like a sack of potatoes on the first shot. I must've got him right square in the forehead or something. My next four rounds were in a box pattern of some sort, I don't know why, but I missed his face twice, but hit his neck and shoulder just fine. Meanwhile, there were two awkwardly placed bullet holes in the wall behind him.

V

The Sunday After @ 10:16pm.

The blood from Mr. Shirley and Sheriff Mayhill has already started to soak into the white carpet. There was no saving it, and I wasn't about to buy a new carpet. Too fucking expensive. The viscous syrup of life is tantamount to a gelatinous inky substance. It's infuriating when it is isn't yours—I watch it spiraling deep into the fibers. For a moment though, I even appreciate the chaotic style by which it stains, and I briefly wonder if my blood would stain in the same, or a different pattern.

“Heh.”

Is there enough gas in the Packard Eight to get far enough away from town and still burn this place to the ground? Only one way to find out.

Something had to be done, and I scrounged around in the garage for some rubber tubing that wouldn't completely turn to mush as I was sucking the gas out of the ol' Pack's tank and into a bed pan. First the gas, and then we'll see if I even have any matches around.

Most people think gas goes up without much effort, but really if you throw a lit match into a puddle, the match just goes out. It's the fumes that ignite. So not only do you have to spread the gas around good so the whole place burns evenly, you also have to wait a little bit—contemplate if you're really going to do it.

If you wait too long, the fumes catch too quickly and it's difficult to get away. 

Maybe I was just too fucking slow.

I didn't stick around on this Earth long enough to find out what they did with the three bodies. Or to find out who deduced the whats, whys, whens, and hows. Mr. Shirley—I don't feel so bad about. There's no way that tax sucking stiff sonofabitch had a wife or kids. His shirt was too cleanly pressed and his glasses were too pristine for any wife to put up it, or for any kids to recklessly counteract his sterility. 

Sheriff Mayhill went to school with Lenny. We grew up together, but we each choose our own side of the coin... and sometimes it ain't all so clear. 

Sure as shit though, it went down just the way we had planned it.

What have I learned?

Lesson 1:

“Write drunk, edit sober.“ ~ Earnest Hemingway (probably.)

Actually, I think Writer's Digest debunked that quote a number of years ago. Still! It's not bad advice, but I only had the evenings to do both, so I was usually sipping on something, mostly gin. Not to the point of falling asleep or coming back the next day to a sloppy word salad. Don't get me wrong, I do that sometimes, but it's shit that I write for myself at the end of a long Saturday night. Just notes to amuse sober me at a later date.

When I seriously sit down to write I limit myself to one or two drinks. It helps to just loosen me up and get me to put the first few words to the page.

In terms of editing, I basically finished the story in a single evening; thirty minutes of brainstorming and outlining, then maybe four to six hours of actual writing. By the end it was the bones of a story, at least.

We had an entire week to complete our story. The rest of the week I wouldn't necessarily consider writing as such. I moved sections around, tried to think about what details I needed to add, and just kept reading through it. Removing things here, adding things there, and just getting the idea to flow with interesting character interactions and making sure to develop the main character enough to where he was likable.

Lesson 2:

Dyslexia is a bitch.

I most certainly read through my story at least 10 times. Even had my wife read it at least once. Both of us still missed stuff. The judges they get for NYC Midnight are at least legit readers, and pointed out shit that definitely knocked me off for points... I don't know exactly what the scoring matrix is, but once I read the feedback and saw the errors, they were so blatantly obvious it was actually quite embarrassing. The one in particular were the timestamps.

During the editing processes I moved the sequence of events around... If I remember correctly it was all jumbled, but I believe I settled on basically just flipping the first and second chapters, everything else was in chronological order. My downfall was that I changed some descriptive text that implies the character is in witnessing the sunrise when the timestamp right above that sentence says “p.m.” I distinctly remember going through the document and checking each of the timestamps (there were only five of them.)

Next year I'll probably enlist at least one friend (even if I have to pay them with a home-cooked meal or a Steam game code or something) to help me. And for them to do one last read through and edit. I do have some friends in mind.

Lesson 3:

I like crime noir.

Quite honestly, I probably wouldn't have written a crime noir set in the 30s if it hadn't been this challenge. When you sign up, you're invested and it's real money on the line. So of course you try your damndest. The deadlines are ridiculous too, so there's really no time to go and read reference material or anything.

I've since looked into a bunch of the Detective pulps of the 30s and 40s, pulled out a few stories to read from the various public domain digests that I've found scattered about online, and... They're really fun! Now I have a whole new genre of reading that I wouldn't have really committed myself to. But, because I'm improving with my writing overall, and I'm committing myself to these competitions, I'm learning a lot more about what it is that I prefer to write.

Science fiction is always going to be a favorite genre of mine. But now I can take a story with a crime noir skeleton and just give it a fresh coat of chromium paint and ruby-electric eyes.

Lastly

Hopefully you enjoyed the story! NYC Midnight does have another competition coming up in May for a “flash fiction” challenge, but I'm not particularly interested in doing it. The microfiction challenge was as small as I want to get with my word count. Instead, f®iction has a quarterly competition that I'm going to enter.

I've already started writing a few drafts... In a way, the f®iction competition is harder. It's more like writing for an editor or a literary agent. There is one judge for each category, they give you a “what we're looking for” and they provide you with a short bio for the judge and what they've previously worked on. That's it. Seven thousand five hundred words is a big budget, but that's the maximum. The minimum is only a thousand words.

I'm not sure if this is entirely the case, but Brandon Sanderson has talked a lot about how he effectively just networked his way into the industry. Passed along his writing to an editor who was someone interested in purchasing that type of a story. Granted, that was traditional publishing, and he no longer advises trying to go that route to get traditionally published... Even if I were to self-publish, there has to be an audience for the writing, someone willing to spend a buck or two to want to read your story.

Wish me luck!

Some people have things in their life that they regret. Sometimes I feel like some of us are more full of regrets than others. My dad was never one to regret anything. A very storied past. I still know all the stories too, and anyone who ever met him would never deny the legend of Jim Kane. “Jimmy Lee!” or “Seamus!” if my Mom was slightly perturbed, or very angry with him, respectively.

There were times I tried to poke and prod him—maybe in the last 5 or 6 years—about telling me all his stories again. Part of the reason being that I wanted to see if he still remembered them, and if they were the same as I remembered. More often than not though, I feel like he would just respond, “you already know all my stories, what am I going to tell you then?”

One of the first things that I noticed when I walked in and saw my Dad's lifeless body on the floor was that he had been holding his phone. In the moment, it stuck out to me as purposeful. Even though he was declining I would see patterns throughout the house. Things setup on the counters for regular use, or oddball items place in specific locations to help an aging mind remember to do the routine thing, whatever it was that needed to be done.

He rarely ever called me, despite my encouragement and reassurance that he was never bothering me. I used to tell him, “Dad, if I can't answer, I won't, but I'll call you back as soon as I get a chance.” That didn't really seem to sway him. My Dad was pretty fiercely independent, even in his old age.

As part of his morning ritual (and especially after my Mom passed) he would listen to music. He told me that he would use his phone in the mornings, read the news, sit and have coffee and just listen to music.

When I left the night before his passing, I told him to make sure that he had his phone on him. I don't know why I thought he might call me, though I suppose I had my suspicions... and whether or not it was his specific intention, I'm going to say that the playlist of music he left me was his way of writing a last will and testament. The songs are very reflective, and I see a lot of his love for my Mom in the lyrics, as well as the sorrow of his loss of her.

He also left me a few swigs of some Dewar's 15 year old scotch that I bought him one Christmas several years ago. Nice and smooth even at room temperature. And I'm thankful that he left it for me, because it was almost as if he knew I was going to need it.

Both of my parents were signed up as full body donors. Part of the medical donation process is an interview with the next of kin about the deceased. The interview for my Mom was relatively quick, and I let my Dad answer those questions. She drank in her youth and smoked weed a couple of times (one of those times was with me), so she was pretty much a “no” for every question that they asked. My Dad, on the other hand, had a laundry list of things that happened to him in his life, or shit that he did with (and to) his own body.

It was hard to see him in pain at the end, but I'm sure he had that one moment looking back, just as the light was taking him, where he would have agreed that the pain was worth the journey. Eventually I'll tell all his stories but they'll probably be mixed in with my fiction so that I don't upset anyone, or have to explain too much.

Has the deceased ever been incarcerated? Have they ever done methamphetamine? How much did the deceased drink? How much did they smoke?

The answer to all of those questions being a resounding “yes,” by the way. He would have been a great one to play “Never Have I Ever” with. Jim was a bit of a caricature at times. He was also the protagonist of his own story, and there were plenty of times where I felt like I lived in his shadow growing up. But he was always just “Dad” to me.

Sex, drugs, and rock n' roll, then prison... Then he met my Mom. They were both in rehab together. They had a pretty tumultuous relationship, before and after my Mother had me. She never said that was I was a mistake, instead I was “the best thing that ever happened” to her. But my parents hadn't planned on having any children. So after I came along there was an adjustment period of about 5-8 years for my Dad while he figured out what it really meant to be a father. Some of my earliest memories of him were seeing him behind a pane of prison glass, having to talk to him through a telephone with a metal cable, and having the time we could visit cut short quite abruptly... If you know, you know.

At one point I had to stop the woman from the medical donation place that was conducting the interview, and just say straight up, “look we can talk about the man's life all day if you want, but that'll take a while. Let's just say that he was a moderate drinker.”

A lot of the problems that my parents had probably could be attributed to my Dad's addictive personality, in particular his drinking, though later in life if would be a predilection toward opiates. Throughout his life, he would go through stints and he had long periods of sobriety. And over the past decade or so, him and I hadn't sat down and had a few drinks with the exception of sharing a beer when my Mom died, but I'll talk about that more later.

It seems pretty surreal that he's gone because I don't have my Mom to commiserate with. My wife is here with me, and she's been amazing through all of this, but she just doesn't know my Dad in the same way that my Mom did, and as I do.

Thankfully the last thing that Dad and I said to each other was, “I love you.” I know that was important to him because his father never said it to him.

I see a lot of myself in him, and I'm not very vocal about my feelings. So, making a playlist of songs is something I absolutely would do to express myself. I know that this was my Dad's way of doing that. Most of these songs I would have never picked out for him. Especially not for his last moments on this plane of existence, so in a way they're also deeply personal songs.

My Dad hadn't really drank since before my Mom passed. He was too busy trying to take care of her, as her alzheimer's progressed it required more and more of his emotion and attention. The way he was able to cope with her decline was with all of the opiates they prescribed for his back—it was a work injury that happened in the mid-2000s. He had been on some form of prescription pain killers and muscle relaxers since then, or for at least the last 20 years. I tried to get him off that stuff, but I could never convince him, so I just let him take the shit. His dependence on the pain killers wasn't as bad as it was toward the end though.

Alcohol doesn't mix well with opiates. As a consequence, I don't think him and I had gotten hammered on a bottle or two of whiskey and a case of beer since before my wife and I met. My grandma had also been living with my parents while my Dad was still working and before he retired.

You can't exactly go to grandma's house and get blind drunk listening to music at full volume in the middle of the night. Which was probably for the best, because my Mom hated it. Nevertheless she did tolerate it when I was younger and it was just the three of us in the house. She'd let my Dad and I bond and have guy time.

Getting trashed with my Dad is something that goes back to when I was 16 or 17. More specifically though, my senior year in high school he let me get drunk with him and his friend, Harold, during the NBA playoffs. We'd drink beers and watch the Lakers with Kobe and Shaq... Used to have to take a drink every time Shaq would miss a free throw. If you know anything about Shaquille O'Neal's free throw percentage, then you are probably laughing about how many drinks that was.

I remember very distinctly being hungover in Mrs. Robert's English class, because my Dad only let me drink if I got my ass up out of bed and went to school the next day. That's what real men did. If you get too drunk the night before, you just have to suck it up and go to work the next day. It was a very clear lesson. In a way, learning that early on has really helped me in life. Addiction and alcoholism can be hereditary, so learning to understand how to navigate that from an early age, and not having to struggle with it as an adult, has been a bit of a blessing, and has made me much stronger willed. I was a straight-A student in high school and graduated as our salutatorian, I even got to give a speech standing in a Masonic hall.

In any case, I hope you've been listening to the playlist at the top of this post while you've been reading along! My Dad picked some really good songs. I knew he liked John Denver, but we mostly only listened to the more popular tunes. “Back Home Again” appears on his original playlist multiple times, “Drift Away” by Dobie Grey is another one, it shows up a few times. Then he puts the Uncle Kracker version on there too! I know for a fact that was NOT a mistake.

“I think he did a great job covering that song!” My Dad would exclaim. Usually in a bit of a drunken stupor.

We used to talk about music a lot. It was a big part of who we were as father and son. My love for music is a gift from both of parents, but even my Mom would have told you, she was terrible about remembering names and dates for songs and musicians. Every once in a while she would remember one, and be very excited about it. My Dad, on the other hand, could name-that-tune in just a couple of notes sometimes.

Last year, or possibly even the year before, I remember picking him up and I was driving us to go get some Jack In The Box or something to eat, and I put on “Summer Breeze” by The Main Ingredient. I thought it was the original version of that song, but he was super quick to correct me;

“Nah, that's not the original. The original was Seals and Crofts. Look it up. You can pull it up on your phone? Look it up.”

Sure as shit...

I do regret not staying last night. By the same token, I don't think he would have wanted to drink, and that's how we would have ended the night... Honestly that probably would not have been a great 911 call. The last thing he would have wanted was for me to get arrested for elderly abuse. I don't think every police officer who shows up to that kind of situation is going to be sympathetic to behavior like that. But who knows.

Unlike with my Mom who went to a hospice facility, my Dad had in-home hospice care. The staff wasn't 24/7... We had been working toward being able to have a full-time caregiver, but we just couldn't make it happen in the time that he had left. That being said, the company we used is the only one that I've ever come across with a 5-star rating, and not a bad review anywhere that I could find. If anyone is interested, feel free to reach out to me privately and I'll be happy to provide their contact information.

I do know that he called the overnight line and a nurse did come out to check on him after I left around 8:00-8:30. I was told that the nurse was there around 11:00-11:30, the nurse probably would have stayed with him for at least a half hour. I don't think it was even 9am when his morning nurse came back to check on him and maybe a little after 9 when his nieghbor called me to let me know that he had passed. Based on what I've been able to piece together, the 3 hour playlist that he left started around 2:30am and continued until around 5:49am. That's when he played Afternoon Delight.

I know he knows that he was loved. Toward the end I had to erect some adult barriers between us to make sure I was handling my own shit, and still able to pay all of his bills at the same time. I also didn't approve of the fact that he let himself get so heavily addicted to opiates, so that may have complicated our relationship, but I don't think it ever soured it. If anything I think he enjoyed hearing about my wife and I spending time together. Or any of the mundane stuff that I had to share about my week. Even if it was only for an hour or two on Sundays, we still sat with each other. Sometimes we talked politics. Other times it was just a series of random thoughts that we would share with one another. I didn't always enjoy having to trek to the other side of town to bring him groceries, but it gave me a damn good reason to go see him at least. So as much as I didn't like it doing it sometimes, I'm going to miss not having to.

This is not exactly a recipe from Chinatown, as much as it is a recipe inspired by Chinatown. It's just another variation on the stir fry method. The Mrs. and I went and ate at Xiao Long Dumplings fairly recently (last week if I remember correctly). She also picked me up some Shaoxing Wine and Dark Soy Sauce from the International Marketplace.

So, this is the result of left-over ingredients, a vague idea of what I was going to make for dinner, trying to recapture and/or conjure the flavors from our dim sum experience.

Spicy beef in a rich, dark sauce with some veggies seemed like the right vessel to carry those flavors. I should've thrown some edamame in there, and if I were to make it again, I'd want some mushrooms in it.

Ingredients

• Half Pound of ground beef (80/20 or 70/30).
• One bundle of green onions.
• Half a white onion.
• Half of a small red cabbage.
• Two Jalapeños.
• Four to six fresh cloves of garlic.
• Fresh peeled ginger, equal volume to your garlic.
• A splash of Shaoxing Wine.
• A couple table spoons of Soy Sauce.
• A couple table spoons of Dark Soy Sauce.
• A couple table spoons of oyster sauce.
• ½ tea spoon of ground white pepper.
• Salt to taste.

Some notes on substitutions.

It should be noted that dark soy sauce is different from light Soy sauce, and light soy sauce is considered “regular” soy sauce in America. Dark might not be available everywhere. Its an ingredient that my wife and I go out of our way to pick up. It also stores in the fridge forever, I don't think it ever goes bad. But, if you can't get dark soy, you could dissolve a small spoon full of Marmite in warm water. You want it relatively thick still, enough to coat the back of a spoon.

There is no substitution for Shaoxing Wine. It just has a unique taste that I've never replicated using other liquids like rice wine vinegar or apple cider vinegar... Most chefs will say that it's really just about the acid, and most people can't tell the different between those ingredients in the end product, but I disagree. Some ingredients just make a world of difference. And this one is a relatively cheap ingredient to get. Order it on Amazon if you have to. I would say to get the one with the red label, but most of them have red labels. The one that our market carries is “Qian Hu” brand.

Some notes on kitchen equipment.

You should own a wok. A flat bottom one is fine. A pre-seasoned one is fine... But seasoning one yourself is relatively easy if you have a few hours on a Sunday to go through the process. What you're doing is you're polymerizing an oil (with the highest smoke point you can find) to the surface of the cooking vessel, which translates to the “non-stick” experience that you have with good cookware. Honestly, weight might be the biggest factor for you personally. You want to make sure that it can take high heat, and is easy to move around so that you can toss the contents of the vessel while you're cooking.

There are special wok spatulas and ladles that you can buy. I prefer to cook with mostly wooden utensils. You can probably get away with using grandma's wooden spoon, so long as the shaft is thick enough to take some pressure as you maneuver it around the wok.

Directions

1. Prep your ingredients.

Wash and split your green onions. Dice your white onion. Add the whites of the green onions to that pile.

Mince or fine dice your ginger and garlic. Group these together.

Cut cabbage into quarter inch square or rectangle shreds.

Slice jalapeños into thin rounds. Group the cabbage and jalapeños together.

2. Cook the beef, and get it crispy, but not burnt.

Get your wok ready. Over high heat, add enough canola oil to coat, drop your ground beef in, and break it up. Let it brown. This will take at least 5-10 minutes. Be sure to stir the ground beef around every couple of minutes so you can judge the texture and color as it cooks.

Once the beer if done, splash it with some Shaoxing Wine. Don't turn it into beef soup. Let the alcohol cook off (this only takes 30 seconds or so), then lower the heat to medium.

3. Add your aromatics.

Add white onion and the green onion bottoms. Let these cook, stirring occasionally until the onion just barely start to turn translucent (about 2-3 minutes).

Add the garlic and ginger, incorporate and let cook until fragrant (1-2 minutes).

4. Add the veggies.

Turn the heat up again to high, add the cabbage and jalapeños. Stir aggressively, get some of the wok hei going. Cook until the cabbage is tender, but still has some body and bite.

5. Make the sauce.

Turn the heat back down to medium. Pour in two or three circumnavigations around your wok worth of soy sauce. Make sure it slides down the sides and you can hear it sizzle. Stir all the ingredients and get them coated in the soy sauce.

Tap a few dabs of oyster sauce from the bottle. Stir all the ingredients and get them coated in the oyster sauce.

Lastly, add your dark soy sauce. Mix and let simmer on medium-low heat for a couple of minutes just to let the flavors combine.

6. Finish.

Serve over white rice. Garnish with the tops of your green onions.